Wanderers and Deities
by Whyte Star
Summary: Impressions of the crew of the Enterprise as told through Gustav Holst's symphony 'The Planets'. COMPLETE.
1. Mars, the Bringer of War

Hello! I would like to preface this piece with a brief author's note. What follows is a series of seven chapters inspired by Gustav Holst's symphony _The Planets. _This will be a _very_ stylistic endeavor, as I am attempting to recreate the feeling of a symphony in words. Just as every movement tells a different story, so will each chapter and each character do the same here. I'm hoping that I'll be able to pull this off!

I would urge everyone to listen to the symphony either before or during reading to truly get the effect. The version that I use as reference is by the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir Colin Davis. Copious amounts of research have gone into this, with everything from reading the original astrological texts that Holst used as inspiration to getting my hands on an actual score of the symphony to see the musical direction.

I must give a billion thanks to my beta Beguile, who helped me stay on track. She is wonderful!

**WANDERERS AND DEITIES**

**I. Mars, the Bringer of War**

The unknown vessel is of a design with which he is unfamiliar; their sensors can not recognize it and suddenly Jim Kirk has that feeling in his gut that everything is going to go to hell.

It is almost as if he can feel the torpedo approaching from across space, though he knows that is not physically possible. It could be because his heart is suddenly slamming against his chest so painfully and erratically, too many beats without enough blood to sustain it. There is a gentle hum as the _Enterprise_ lurches away in an evasive maneuver and a scream of an explosion as the weapons make contact. The bridge rattles beneath him and he bears down with a white-knuckled grip on the captain's chair and hopes that his sweating palms do not betray him.

One voice bellows that their shields are dropping while another informs him that more unknown projectiles are approaching from their other side. He fights with himself not to sound frantic and on his order the _Enterprise_ tries to sweep away. The maneuver is successful in avoiding a direct hit as orbs of electric green skirt the ship at an oblique angle and dissolve with a plume of residual impact into the shields at their port side.

A voice in the distant chaos somewhere informs him that there is damage to three of the decks with one of them bordering on critical and another voice is quick to report that the shields will not withstand multiple hits of that magnitude.

He slams his hand against the communicator on his chair, screams above the chaos for his chief medical officer. There is static for a moment and a sound that may be a scream of terror and the doctor's voice slices through the din for only a moment. He says he is going to be up to his elbows in the dead and the wounded and what the hell was going on out there and did anyone have it in their right mind to stop it any time soon?

Kirk can not spare the thought to respond because there is another barrage of ammunition hurtling their way. He screams for the doctor to do the best that he can and cuts off the communication just as another explosion terrorizes the area somewhere above his head. A bright flash follows and sparks scatter amid startled and horrified noises.

The report from tactical fails to reach him through the ringing in his ears but his instincts reveal to him what his auditory senses can not. He diverts all power to the shields he is afraid will not hold because it is the only thing he can do.

As he stares through the polarized screen at the unknown vessel looming in the distance, Kirk wonders bitterly why this situation seems so familiar.

The ship is gutted and naked against the backdrop of the universe and only one living soul occupies it. Many of his comrades are dead in the corridors while others have been sucked into the abyss to die of suffocation if the explosions did not kill them first.

His fingers fly across surfaces, unleashing a barrage of ammunition at his enemy. It is a suicide mission and he knows this. The ship trembles beneath him, drawing every ounce of remaining power to exhaust her supply of weapons in the face of utter destruction.

Red phaser fire cuts a swath through the blackness and the blue-white radiance of photon torpedoes light up the empty space. There is a resounding impact across the void. Kirk watches the unknown vessel lurch unnaturally, debris blossoming from her side as one photon torpedo finds a weakness on her flank. Kirk decides to act before his brain can organize his thoughts and belts orders at the helmsman. The _Enterprise_ lurches and moves swiftly and he hopes that this will garner them enough opportunity.

So many alarms are blaring in his ears that he can not register the next chorus of them but he has no need to do so because he can feel it in his bones. Shields are critical and weapons are off-line and he has no choice but to carry out his final directive as any good captain should do. Lead settles in his stomach as the computer speaks to him because it is disconcerting and chilling how placid her voice sounds in the midst of all this chaos.

A series of adjustments on a control brings a bright red notice on the screen that burns itself permanently into his eyes. He settles himself in the captain's chair and grips at the arms, stares straight ahead into the face of his enemy.

The vessel is losing power to their forward shields, tactical announces. They are diverting power to their flank as if conscious of Kirk's move. As the _Enterprise_ is in motion the enemy unleashes another unyielding attack and enough energy comes through to rock the bridge and throw Kirk from his chair as something explodes behind him, belching smoke and flame and heat.

The impact comes quickly. The seconds count to zero and he feels the pride, the anger, the terror, the mixed emotions he can not hope to name well up in confusion in his breast. He is thrown forward with a force that snaps his neck and a heat that melts his skin as the bridge disintegrates around him and everything explodes outward to envelop him with hands of flame and twisted metal and untamed energy.

He screams something that is burning in the forefront of his brain, though if asked to repeat the order he would be unable. Tactical bellows to him that the damage in the injured decks has gone critical and that life support will soon follow. There are more words flooding in his direction than he can hope to comprehend and his ears are drumming so loud with the chaos that he can not discern anything above the sounds of destruction.

Kirk looks very serious, mumbles under his breath before he can even think. General Order Thirteen.

Every eye on the bridge whirls to face him. Some are incredulous, others almost afraid. The command echoes across all decks. The members of the bridge are hesitant to leave. He orders them away but can not join them yet; he will defend against attack long enough for the crew to escape, for that is a captain's duty. Several members of his crew voice their concern but he shakes his head and orders them away with an authority he wishes he did not need to use. Even in the face of death, he will always be his father's son.

He does not have time to look them in the eyes, to say his apologies and his goodbyes.

The bridge is deserted and has dipped into semi-darkness. Green-white projectiles scream toward him from across the distance and he urges the _Enterprise_ to evade, but the ship is wounded and sluggish and hesitant to respond to his urges. She manages only meager tilt before the projectiles slam into the saucer and nearly send her rolling. The bridge flashes bright white and yellow and Kirk is flung from his feet and has to cling to the control panel to stay upright.

This is the only way. He must remind himself again because his head hurts to much and his heart is pounding so fiercely that he can not even think. The fear is as palpable and real as the heat and he wipes sweat and blood from his eyes with the back of his hand before dragging his ragged fingers across another set of controls.

The ship trembles beneath him as if gasping her last dying breaths and he feels a part of him fall apart and die with her.

The bridge buckles as an explosion rocks the lower decks, though it is not from enemy fire. The ship is breaking apart and folding in upon itself beneath his very feet. Another tremor causes him to collapse into the captain's chair and into the seat of his old glory. He steadies himself amid the fire and the darkness and will not let his shoulders stoop despite the anger and the fear and the agony. The alarms and the sounds of destruction suddenly recede into static and the chaos around him slows into that moment of mental tranquility that is always present just before the end.

The computer struggles, sluggishly confirms that the correct course is engaged.

He straightens his back, squares his shoulders. He is James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the_ U.S.S._ _Enterprise,_ and though both will soon be no more he has no regrets. He was born in chaos and will depart in the same fashion. It is only natural it should happen this way, for that is the natural balance of things in the universe.

He thinks of many things as he feels the engines thrum to life one last time and wishes above anything that he had someone to talk to, for there is nothing worse to him than to die alone. His fingers dance across the communication pad even though he knows there is no soul alive on board to hear it. He announces himself to the emptiness, says his thanks you and his goodbyes to dead ears. It is cathartic and comforting somehow as the enemy ship engulfs the screen before him.

He will not close his eyes.

He cuts the communication line at the last possible moment. Kirk out.

He does not have time to willingly accept the sensations as much as they are thrust upon him. Indescribable energy slams him forward so quickly that his body can not take the primal reaction to protect itself and he has a snapping moment of realization that he is breaking in pieces before his body is evaporated in flames and he suddenly feels absolutely nothing all.

The first sensation that flickers to life in his fuzzy and darkened sphere of existence is a throbbing agony across his shoulders. He decides against opening his eyes, afraid of what he might find.

A gentle sensation on his back brings him around violently for the simple fact that it hurts so damn much. His eyes fly open and he finds himself staring at the floor and he flinches away from this sudden realization. Many voices whisper his name but they merge together discordantly with the screaming echoes in his head. He forces himself to his knees against his better judgment and faces the battered and dirty faces of his crew, bright eyes staring at him in a muted mixture of terror and exultant relief.

The enemy ship is gone and the _Enterprise_ is saved. He fights to untangle his memories from the depths of his foggy recollection between the ragged breaths he takes to keep himself conscious. They tell him that his suggestion to flank the vessel was successful and that their photon torpedoes were able to penetrate the weaker shields there before the alien ship could compensate. The result was utter destruction.

Kirk can not believe this, for the last tactical move in his memory is General Order Thirteen. He gapes at them, uncomprehending. The doctor explains that a blast from the enemy vessel had knocked him unconscious just as they fired their own torpedoes and the exploding consoles behind him had nearly taken out half the bridge.

He struggles to his feet with the help of the doctor and instantly regrets it, for the charred skin on his back is taught and it feels like his bones might explode from the effort. He pushes away all medical treatment under the guise that there are others that require it more than he; in actuality he is well aware of the seriousness of the injuries to his body but he is more concerned about the pain in his head and his heart, the sudden agony he did not know could exist.

It was a fight not entirely his own and a pain that did not belong to him. The experience that felt so real was an illusion. Fragments of the destroyed vessel have not embedded themselves in his body and ripped him to blooded pieces across the blank canvas of the universe. It was not his flesh melting away under the ponderous heat, not his bones breaking, not his heart breaking, not his mind falling apart, not his memories and regrets and hopes and empty desires of a life cut short.

Never did he imagine that it would be this painful to be _alive._

In a haunting moment he realizes that it was not _his_ final struggle he was reliving in his unconsciousness.

It was his father's.

_To be continued._


	2. Venus, the Bringer of Peace

Not exactly who you might have been expecting for this piece, was it?

Welcome to Venus, the movement that is the complete opposite from Mars both stylistically and musically. Behold the power of the French horn, the flute, and the oboe!

Note that in Holst's composition, Venus is not necessarily given the romantic associations that mythology often ascribes to the planet. Rather, it is meant to represent unity, friendship, and order that arises out of disorder. It is a calming, tranquil piece.

My beta Beguile gets more credit than words can express on this one, as I wasn't even planning to use Chekov for this movement! But it has turned out better than I ever imagined it could, and I thank her endlessly for that.

Also, thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I am always excited to find others out there with the same love for this beautiful piece of music. Enjoy!

**II. Venus, the Bringer of Peace**

Pavel Andreievich Chekov is doing something unusual, for it is midway through gamma shift and he is sitting alone on the bridge. He did not _order_ the junior officers away. In truth he does not know if he _has _the authority to clear out the night watch. He merely made the gentle_ suggestion_ that they take a temporary leave, and they all scattered without question. Alone with only the echoes and vibrations of the ship as his company, he takes a heavy seat in his customary chair, locates his stylus, and begins pouring over the one little factoid that has been keeping him up at night.

It is not often that a piece of mathematics troubles young Chekov, regardless of the field. To him the understanding of numbers comes as easily and as naturally as breathing. He has used his knowledge to help save lives and planets, and he should be able to take great pride in his almost omnipotent understanding of the universe's natural and eternal language. So when a certain engineer, also highly proficient in the same language, approached him with a friendly challenge to provide a proof for a particularly difficult equation, Chekov could not refuse.

Chekov understands that this particular problem stymied mathematicians for over three hundred years until it was finally solved. The engineer also explains that they wagered money on this proof, and if there was one thing more exciting to Chekov than mathematics it was a challenge, particularly ones where victory was assured. The Russians did invent gambling, after all, he reminds himself confidently. The engineer told him that a significant amount of monetary reward would come his way should he find a solution to the problem within one week, something that might include credits or alcohol or something more—the chief engineer had been intentionally vague about that last point.

Here it is, six days and twenty hours after he had made said wager, and now the young ensign is staring at the screen before him, eyebrows furrowed, chin resting on his open palm, eyes bright and staring at the unusually long list of numbers that glow before him in a beautiful pattern, as compact and interconnected as a score of music.

He can not let himself be beaten by these numbers, nor by the engineer, because it would probably involve him having to drink scotch for a week and be called 'laddie' until his ears fall off.

It is an exhausting uphill battle, being the youngest member on the bridge, though he did not consider himself a child in light of his captain's . . . what was the word? Shenanigans, he thinks it is called, though the chief engineer had been drunk when he said it, and his pronunciation was bad enough when alcohol was _not_ involved, so Chekov delegates that particular word to internal conversation only.

He realizes that his mind is wandering in an ethereal sort of way and chastises himself for becoming so distracted. He straightens and grips the stylus tightly, as if that alone were the source of his problem, and turns his eyes to the more pressing matters at hand. His eyes glass over as if in a trance and his hand seems to move of its own accord as his mind goes to work on a problem as old and as ponderous as the universe.

Odd that he should think it this way, for as his eyes cross over the light-colored numbers and symbols arranged on the dark background he suddenly decides that it looks like a blanket of stars. His eyes wander to the viewscreen not five paces from where he sits, and though it is only dimly lit the infinitesimal lights of the stars still shine brightly in his eyes, like diamonds against velvet. He sighs, slackens in his chair again, and lets the romantic image of virgin space percolate in his thoughts.

Sometimes he wonders if they underestimate him, if they mistake his curls and his uncontrollable accent and his childish face to indicate some sort of incompetency. After a breath he knows this is not true; it is not out of irritation that they latch onto his idiosyncrasies, but rather out of endearment.

Occasionally the first officer will use a word that is completely beyond his comprehension, and he will turn his exasperated eyes to the helmsman for translation. And the helmsman would always explain everything to him with that gentle, knowing smile on his face and a fraternal tone in his voice, and Chekov can not help but smile in return.

But he is well aware of the whispers and fragments of words that often echo in his wake, the gradual changes in expression whenever he walks into the room. They mean no malice by it, and he understands this. It is merely their natural response to him, as predictable as gravity. There is something unspoken between all of them that he is meant to be protected, though from what, Chekov never really knows. Perhaps it is from the chief engineer and his copious amounts of alcohol of dubious origin, or perhaps from anything that the captain might be doing at any given moment, or maybe they are worried that placing himself and the first officer too close together would result in a singularity of scientific and mathematical knowledge that would consume the bridge.

Or. . . perhaps they do it simply because they _want to._

In the back of his mind, Chekov wonders blithely what these people would ever do without him, and he smiles a little inside. He finds himself fighting not to laugh uncontrollably as he realizes how far his mind has wandered. A lack of sleep can do unusual things to a person's mind, even one as sharp as his, and as much as he is tempted to return to his quarters he knows that he still has an important job to do. He haphazardly drags out a few more lines before the stylus slips across the screen and his exhausted fingers stumble; the stylus falls and rolls to the floor. He curses, if slightly slurred, and leans down to retrieve it. To obtain the proper trajectory necessary for him to reach the stylus he has to lean his head and free arm against the screen, and by the time the fingers of his other hand clasp the stylus his eyelids have already grown heavy with the effort. He manages to bring the implement to the screen with a half-hearted notion of completing another equation, but his arm falls limp, and before he can protest his eyes close in sleep, and his subconscious mind is dreaming about strings of numbers weaving around him like a blanket made of beautiful, glowing stars.

The corners of his lips curl into a barely detectable smile, the beautiful and placid expression of youth.

Hours pass unnoticed, for the secret language of the universe has no knowledge of time; indeed, it has no need for it. For the numbers in his dreams are the same as the numbers of someone in another galaxy, another lifetime, another reality, and will remain immutable and eternal until the final star in the universe draws its last breath.

The communications officer enters the bridge some time later and finds the young ensign draped over his console, head nestled in the crook of his arm, curls askew and mouth slightly open, trapped in the deep throes of sleep. His stylus is balanced precariously between two fingers, and though it is difficult to see the information the ensign is obscuring with his body, she can detect the fringes of a complicated mathematical equation scrawled from one side of the screen to the other.

She hesitates, places a hand on the sleeping ensign's shoulder and gives a gentle shake.

Chekov, he can hear a whisper. Wake up, Chekov.

He opens one eye begrudgingly, sees her chocolate-colored eyes staring at him with a tender expression. Good morning, she says to him, so beautifully and effortlessly in his mother tongue that his brain, half-drowned in sleep, can almost mistake it for his mother's voice.

He decides that it may be _good,_ but he is pretty certain that it is not _morning,_ though you could never really tell in space, but it did not feel like morning and he did not want it to be morning. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes again, contented.

Pavel Andreievich, she says to him, this is no place to be sleeping.

His eyes fly open for the simple fact that someone called him by his patronymic, and that is so unusual on this vessel that he has almost forgotten the sound of it. Needles of a sensation he can not name run down his spine and make him tremble a little inside. It reminds him that he is Pavel, son of Andrei, and not simply Pavel, or Chekov, or 'kid.' In a brief flash of child-like innocence he decides it is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.

He manages to peel himself away from the sensitive console screen and tries to work out the kinks in his back, and bites back the yawn bubbling in his throat. He rubs the fatigue from his eyes and tries not to appear sheepish, though with his tousled hair and bemused expression this is nigh impossible.

She responds with a gentle smile and places a hand on his shoulder in a completely maternal gesture.

He wants to reach out to her and grasp her hand but can not bring himself to do so. He settles for simply addressing her as lieutenant, because saying her name seems entirely too personal, and is suddenly far too tall of a task for him to complete.

She inclines her head toward him in response and he looks suddenly away.

. . . You may call me Pasha, he sputters, and instantly feels the color spring to his cheeks.

Not many people at home have called him this, and he doubts that anyone else on the ship will ever do so, but she is proficient in linguistics and she understands the significance of this diminutive name; coming from her lips it will sound as harmonious and more beautiful than music.

Pasha.

He melts inside when she says it and a bright, dumbfounded smile nearly cracks his face in half; for a moment he forgets what he was doing there and can not even form a coherent sentence.

There is a beat of silence while she simply watches him, until suddenly a certain string of numbers permanently burned into his memory suddenly surface, and he remembers with a sudden jerk the lines of equations that had been serving as his pillow for the past several hours. He stutters an apology to the lieutenant and suddenly forgets her entirely, snapping his head back to the control panel in search of his stylus.

His mouth drops open as he looks at the equation. He shakes his head as if to jar his sluggish brain and drags his eyes across the lines again, and each time he deduces the same result. The proof is complete, arranged beautifully and logically and only missing a resounding _quod erat demonstrandum_ as an exclamation point. His hand finds its way instinctively to his temple as he gapes wide-eyed at a proof he can not remember completing. He must have finished it in the delirium before sleep over took him, for he does not think that it is possible that he solved it through his dreams. . .

It has been six days, twenty-three hours, and twelve minutes.

He starts laughing out of exhaustion and pride and relief. His fingers trace above the lines of numbers, so symmetrical and logical and beautiful that suddenly all words fail him.

Good job, Pasha.

His mind snaps to attention at the sound of her voice, and a certain unspeakable thought suddenly blossoms at the forefront of his mind. He sits still for a moment, listens to his heart beating furiously against his chest in unbridled trepidation. He chews on his lip in a moment of speechless indecision, takes a measured breath.

His hands are suddenly clammy with sweat as he struggles mentally with a thought he never believed he could entertain. His hand hovers above the screen, fingers reaching out toward it like a child to his mother, and in a flash Pavel Andreievich Chekov makes one of the most important decisions of his young life.

He mutters something incomprehensible, and in a moment of catharsis drags his fingers across the screen in a series of gentle movements. All the numbers, so beautiful and so sacrosanct, vanish in an instant.

He now understands that there are some elements in his life more important than numbers and mathematical proofs and bets made for money and for pride. Just as this crew would not be the same without him, Chekov realizes in a moment of glorious mental clarity that he does not know how he could survive without them. It is symmetry much more beautiful than any equation he has ever known, for it is something that not even the delicate language of the universe could hope to explain.

He discards the stylus, folds his hands in his lap, and turns to the communications officer with a serene expression, his eyes locked on her own. He can manage only one simple phrase, but pours into it all the emotions that he can not hope to relate otherwise.

Thank you.

She responds to him in kind, and the communications officer and the young navigator dissolve into conversation in Pavel Andreievich's native Russian, their words echoing across the bridge in a perfect unity of voices.

_To Be Continued._


	3. Mercury, the Winged Messenger

This chapter is a teeny bit late because it was a tough little sucker to work with! I ended up relying more on TOS Sulu, simply because the poor guy doesn't get enough screen time in the movie.

I am now convinced that I have done more research on this fanfic that I have for some of my undergrad term papers, which is slightly frightening. . .

Again, thanks goes to Beguile for the beta!

**III. Mercury, the Winged Messenger**

Hikaru Sulu considers himself a man of many talents. As the celebrated helmsman of the flagship of the Federation his presence is a vital and necessary one, but the depth of his influence does not stop at the bridge. Sometimes even the glory of piloting the _Enterprise_ pales in comparison to his oft humorous but ever treasured experiences with the crew that call her home.

The morning finds him sitting in the mess hall with the young navigator. The ensign always has a frantic air about him so early in the morning, one that Sulu finds oddly endearing. The young boy seems to have a lack of inhibition almost in opposition to himself, and placing the two of them together seems to instigate a sort of osmosis in the young ensign. He will begin to talk incessantly and Sulu will listen because he enjoys it. His exterior will remain ever calm, tranquil, as he deciphers the words that gallop toward him. He absorbs the information with a patient silence, his eyes always focused on his exuberant polar opposite.

He does not even attempt to correct the ensign when the young man leans very close to him, drops his voice very low, and conveys a very important piece of Russian history that, in actuality, is a complete misconception. Sulu will merely respond with a wry smile he is sure that the ensign does not see, because there is something infectious in the Russian's effervescent optimism that makes the day so much easier to endure.

Several hours later the first officer is standing over his shoulder, dark eyes fixed with an expression that is unreadable but conveys a deadly air. Sulu is focused at his controls, watching the numbers and the figures as they fly by in rapid succession. His expression has not changed despite the tension inherent in the situation; he is attempting a difficult maneuver that the first officer feels the need to supervise, though Sulu does not think this is necessary and proceeds in his duty without paying much notice to the looming, statuesque form beside him.

The _Enterprise_ is his épée. To an uniformed mind this may seem a ludicrous comparison, to liken a Constitution class starship to a slender and near obsolete dueling weapon. Sulu entertains this belief in his own private revelry. He knows ways to make the slenderest of swords into the most honorable and dangerous of weapons with a technique that borders on an artistic endeavor, and it is not difficult to extrapolate this prowess to the_ Enterprise_. As the helmsman of said vessel, he can control her every movement as easily as he moves his fingers.

He can make the jump to faster than the speed of light with the same ease as breathing, while navigating with the impulse drive and thruster fire is nearly second nature. Even in the clutches of a battle, where his ability to control the ship may mean the difference between life and death, at his command she will lunge forward in preparation for attack or bank away in defense. Backward and forward and upside-down and sideways, he could probably pilot the ship blindfolded if the situation warranted it.

All this is the innate power of the ship, and not his own. He is merely the messenger.

He is the d'Artagnan of the _Enterprise_, wielding a ship weighing hundreds of thousands of metric tonnes with the ease and skill of a delicate rapier.

The ship eases smoothly into position; he takes his hands from the controls and lets them slip deliberately to his sides. His eyes travel upward with no hint of condescension or arrogance. The Vulcan nods slowly in approval, turns on his heel, and paces gently away.

After his shift he is in one of the simulation rooms with the captain, returning a favor of sorts.

He remembers how the captain had jumped after him, and how they had fallen together without a chute in the most terrifying seconds of his life.

He is a great believer in the balance of all things. That is how physics dictates it should be.

Therefore, when the captain expressed interest in learning a particular body throw when Sulu used it to defend himself from a hostile alien life form several weeks before, the helmsman was more than willing to oblige.

He can hear his opponent approaching behind him with heavy, elongated strides. He counts the seconds, prepares his balance, and raises his hands just as the captain slams into him from behind with an attempt at a complete takedown. But Sulu grapples at the captain's arms with no sense of urgency. Bending slightly at the waist and with a sudden outburst of breath Sulu pulls hard; the captain's feet leave the ground as he is thrown over Sulu's shoulder in one fluid movement and lands gruffly on his back, completely surprised.

It is a beautifully executed throw, done so smoothly that he has hardly broken a sweat. The captain, supine with his limbs thrown wide, looks as if he has just run a marathon. He asks Sulu how the hell he can do that, and the helmsman merely replies that it is a little bit of physics and a little bit of art.

It is more about the mind, captain, than it is about the strength.

The captain replies to this with a skeptical expression.

It is now the apprentice's turn to execute. He stands with his back to Sulu, arms akimbo. In comparison to the captain's mammoth strides, Sulu's approach is light and precise. He stands perpendicular to the captain and the two remain in stasis for a delicate moment. He can feel the captain's tension build as the silence percolates; it is a natural response, one of anticipation.

He explodes in movement from complete silence. With a feline grace he drops almost to his knees, wraps one leg around the captain's own, and the two fall together. When the dust settles the captain is again on his back. Sulu untangles himself and settles on his knees, poised and unruffled, and can not help but smile in response to the livid expression on the captain's face below him.

The captain indicates that they will perform this particular stunt again until the results turn in his favor.

After the fifteenth attempt the captain decides to call it a night.

Sulu remarks to the captain that he is making progress, and the captain responds with a friendly punch to his shoulder that nearly sends the helmsman reeling. As the two part ways in the hallway the captain gives him that knowing, confident smile of his, brimming with a determination and grit that, despite his attempts, Sulu can not hope to quantify.

Later into the evening the chief engineer invites him to the engineering deck on the premise of showing him something fantastic. In secret of most everyone on the ship he has constructed a very advanced distillery in a remote corner of the deck. It is a device normally frowned upon on any starship, but the helmsman can not help but smile at the ludicrous nature of it all. The unabashed expression on the chief engineer's face as he brandishes a glass of the engine room hooch, as he has so delicately named it, proves to be both frightening and empowering at the same time.

The engineer says that he, Mr. Sulu, is the first man on the _Enterprise_ to take bounty in this precious commodity, because he is the the only man that can be trusted not to boast about it. The engineer says he might make its presence known to the captain one day, but everyone knows how big the man's mouth is, and even more debilitating is that certain shadow of a first officer with those very acute Vulcan ears and a harrowing lack of a sense of humor.

Sulu merely nods his head in agreement as the engineer carries on this one-sided conversation and accepts the glass of alcohol proffered in his direction. The engineer and helmsman raise their glasses in a toast to the _Enterprise_, and Sulu watches with a growing sense of apprehension as his companion begins to consume the illicit liquor at a rate twice that of himself.

After his first glass, however, the thought suddenly slips his mind.

It is late into the evening when Sulu's clouded brain finally realizes the mistake of conversing with the chief engineer over, as the man so quaintly puts it, a wee belt of alcohol. He decides after an intense moment of thought that the chief engineer's definition of the word stands to endure a major adjustment.

By his second glass, which may be the engineer's fourth, the conversation begins to run in unusual and dangerous circles.

When the captain asks his helmsman the next morning why the engineer woke up half the ship when he chased him out of the engineering deck whilst wielding a wrench, Sulu merely shrugs one shoulder, his face a complete mask of neutrality, and feigns alcohol-induced ignorance.

_To Be Continued._


	4. Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity

**IV. Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity**

The hot sun is beating down on his head, but there is something warm and wet breathing against the side of his face. Montgomery Scott jerks awake instantaneously to come face to face with a mouth full of teeth and a lolling pink tongue. He jerks away on instinct, bellowing acidic curses, his every sense on edge. After an intense moment where realization takes its time getting through his panicked mind, he sighs and lowers his readied phaser as he discerns that the owner of these implements is not a dangerous alien creature.

It is a dog.

It is a breed he can not identify, slightly on the smaller side with a tangle of wiry hair that has not seen care in a long time, and a stub of a tail that is wagging persistently. As far as he can tell, a pure _canis familiaris. _He does not have a horn or serrated teeth or huge claws or anything else to suggest that he could soon make the engineer his next meal. Instead, he is staring at Scott with pleading eyes, trembling as if trying to restrain from tackling him for want of attention.

Er, hello, Scott offers, slightly dumbfounded.

He glances around as if to look for a human companion for the animal, but he knows this effort is in vain. He has been on this planet for quite some time now, in the ruins of what was once a human colony of researchers that had been abandoned several weeks before for reasons unknown. His search of the colony has provided little evidence, and he has been waiting for transport back to the _Enterprise_ for several hours. Of course, when her chief engineer is away, something will always go wrong, and he has been waiting out the time in shade of the lee side of a building as his junior officers struggle with a faulty transporter.

The heat, which is steady and unrelenting, must have lolled him to sleep before his newfound companion stealthily appeared.

Scott readjusts himself and leans back into the narrow strip of shade. The dog had backed away during his outburst and now watches him from a distance. He shows no signs of fear, but rather of a restraint that Scott finds oddly humorous. He can only watch the beating tail and the expressive eyes for a moment before his resolve caves in.

He pats the dusty ground beside him.

Come here, you mutt, he mutters. Canna leave you out there lookin' sorry for yourself.

In retrospect, Scott is slightly amused at how fast the dog covers the distance between them. He plants himself beside the engineer with the inexplicable trait of canine familiarity. Scott's hand reaches out to the dog, hesitant. After a pause, a thick pink tongue licks at his fingers. Scott pulls them away and begins to scratch the mongrel behind its ears. The dog leans into Scott, eyes half open and head tilted back, and sighs in contentment.

Scott lets his hand fall, ponders the dog with a curious expression.

What are you doing all alone here?

The mongrel responds with a generous sloshing of its oversized tongue along Scott's face in an exuberant display of unbridled affection. The engineer pulls away and makes a motion with his hands to push the dog away, but the animal seems to take this as an invitation and lunges his entire body weight against the engineer. Though he is not a large dog by any means, Scott is nevertheless caught off guard, and topples sideways with the dog standing on his shoulders. The engineer flings his arms like a madman, struggles to push the dog away until finally the dog eases back onto his haunches, his tail beating a small helix of dust up from the ground, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Scott raises himself upright, rubbing the quantity of saliva from his cheeks. He glares at the dog from the corners of his eyes, but the animal seems unaffected by his indignation.

The communicator at his side suddenly trills to life, and one of his junior officers reports that the problem with the transporter has finally been fixed; he can now be beamed aboard at his command.

Scott throws a general thank you in the direction of the orbiting _Enterprise,_ and gets to his feet.

A small sound draws his attention to the dog. Scott heaves a sigh, offers the dog one final pat on the head and takes a few steps away to prepare for beaming. The dog watches him intently, makes a pitiful sound, and attempts to follow him.

Stop it, you canna come with me.

The dog plants himself firmly on the ground, offers his best expression of canine disdain, and barks once, short and succinct. The noise makes Scott jump.

Quit yer bellyaching, Scott demands. He turns his back and folds his arms, as if that one statement decides everything. He hails the _Enterprise. _They tell him they are locking onto his signal. It is at that moment that he feels something cold and wet against his hand. He tells himself to not look down, but his eyes can not resist, and he finds the dog sitting at his side, looking up at him with absolutely pitiful eyes.

A string of curses fly through his mind. He sighs, buries his head in one hand, and hails the _Enterprise _again in haste.

Two to beam up.

There is a skeptical response from the other end.

Well, one man and one dog.

The junior officer's response is hesitant. Scott pulls rank and in a moment the junior officer agrees, with an obvious air of reluctance, to beam the dog aboard the _Enterprise._

As he waits for the transport to begin, Scott looks down at his serendipitous companion. The dog is staring at him in the way canines often do, completely unaware of the gigantic wave of trouble that is soon to be set in motion as soon as those four paws set foot on the _Enterprise._ Scott dreads inwardly the explanation he is going to have to generate to cover his ass for this one.

He looks at the mischievous glint in the dun-colored eyes, and his heart softens.

Scott shakes his head. _Montgomery, you old sod._

He decides that the dog's tawny coat resembles the color of an old and favorite friend, and his throat aches in memory.

I will call you Whisky, he says.

The dog continues to thrum his tail in approval as the world dissolves around them.

When the transportation is complete_,_ Scott looks down to find Whisky sitting patiently a few steps away, as unperturbed by the beaming as if it had never happened. A wry thought crosses his mind that at least this particular canine fared better during transport than his earlier choice.

There are two junior officers present in the transporter room. Both are staring at him with expressions of muted hilarity.

It really _is_ a dog, one of them mutters.

One look at the chief engineer's expression silences them immediately. He orders one junior officer to request that the captain join him in his quarters for a debriefing of recent events.

Scott steps off the transporter pad and Whisky follows at his heels, completely oblivious of the change of scenery, or of the people that turn to gape as the chief engineer and his slightly dirty canine companion traverse the halls of the _Enterprise._

The first thing that the captain does upon entering his quarters is burst out laughing, which Scott does not take as a good sign. Bright blue eyes peruse the unusual sight of the chief engineer sitting at his desk with a dirtied, matted dog at his feet. The captain inclines his head, hesitates a moment as if formulating a difficult statement.

We can't keep him on the ship, Scotty.

The engineer nods his head gravely, well aware of the numerous protocols he is currently or soon will be violating by having Whisky on board.

The captain reports that he will have the communications officer searching the channels for any information about refugees from the lost colony. If any such persons are found, and are indeed missing a member of the canine persuasion, then it is his responsibility to ensure that the dog is returned to its rightful owner. If no one can be located, then they will have to find some way to get the dog off ship. Until then, however, the dog is to remain here in his quarters, no exceptions.

Scott promises with a confident smile that Whisky will be no trouble at all.

As the captain is leaving, he takes one more look at the dog, and his face contorts as if in disgust.

That thing is dirty as hell, Scotty.

Though he realizes that the captain is merely stating the obvious, Scott still flinches as if offended.

Give him a bath, Scotty. And that's an order.

Minutes after giving this statement, the captain has barely settled himself back on the bridge when a security officer stumbles in, voice raised, chasing a completely soaked and utterly overzealous dog with very little success at catching him. Whisky slides into the bridge, eyes wide with excitement rather than terror. He settles on the person closest to himself for protection, bounds over toward the communications officer, and plants himself behind her chair, half tucked under the console.

The doors to bridge slide open again and Scott stumbles in, dragging in with him a great quantity of water. His uniform is soaked with it and suds of soap cling precariously to his hair. He sees Whisky sitting innocently in the vicinity of the communications officer, lifts one soggy finger towards him, and unleashes a string of curses so fierce that the captain eventually has to stop him, lest he collapse from the effort.

Whisky tilts his head, and decides that this moment would be appropriate to dry himself. He shakes violently and drops of water scatter across the bridge. This elicits laughter from the communications officer but a much less pleasurable response from the first officer; the latter chases the haphazard duo from the bridge with a deadly inclination of his eyebrow and a few choice words that Scott does not take the time to comprehend as the door slides shut behind him.

Toward the end of his shift, he can hear one of his junior officers yelling across the engineering deck, to no one in particular, that the damn dog has gotten into the Jefferies tubes, and Scott can not help but hang his head in his hands and wonder how the hell the beast got out again.

After finally sequestering Whiskey in his quarters and ordering one of the junior officers to stand watch outside, Scott is returning to the engineering deck when he receives an urgent summons to the bridge. The captain explain to him that the communications officer, after repeated inquires, has managed to locate the refugees from the lost colony, and that said refugees are inquiring about a certain dog.

They have agreed to pilot the _Enterprise_ to the coordinates of the new colony, on a planet not far from their current location, and to beam down and return the dog to the members of the colony.

Scott has a sudden hard lump in his throat that he can not explain, but he nods in response to his captain, and agrees to be ready for the transport.

It is less than an hour later that he beams down, with Whisky at his side, to the outskirts of a colony on on a small, Terran-like planet.

A man greets him. He is holding hands with a small girl with ginger-colored pigtails. She takes one look at the dog and squeals in ear piercing delight. Scott catches Whisky making a series of high-pitched noises that the engineer can only assume are of recognition. The dog runs himself in circles several times, gives a series of staccato barks, but does not stray from his side.

Whisky suddenly looks up at him as if asking permission. Scott hesitates but soon reaches down, scratches behind the dog's ears one last time.

Oh get on with it, ye mutt.

Whisky's tail begins its incessant thumping again, and the dog licks him gently against the back of his hand. Scott nods his head in silent understanding, motions Whisky away with a gentle wave of his fingers.

The dog lopes away into the waiting arms of the young girl, and she gallops forward to meet him. She buries her face in the dog's fur, blathering incoherent sounds, and Scott can tell by her trembling that she is crying. Whisky curls his body around the girl, licks the tears from her face as her sobs slowly turn to a wet, choking laugh, and she begins to run her tiny hands down the length of Whisky's body, grabbing at his fur compulsively.

Well, Scott thinks with a hollow feeling in his chest, he isn't really Whisky anymore.

As he watches the young girl and her dog his heart begins to swell and burst in his chest, but he can not put a name to the feelings grappling within him. It is an emptiness that feels so full at the same time, a contradiction that he can not hope to understand.

He does not need to understand, however, as a small hand tugs at the hem of his uniform. He looks down to see the upturned face of the young girl beaming at him; her eyes are bright with tears and her face is streaked and sticky with them, but she has a cherubic gap-toothed smile. He sinks down to his knees, his face level with hers.

In a flurry of movement she latches onto him, her arms barely enough to encircle his shoulders. He does not know how to react for a moment and his arms hang limply at his sides.

Thank you, mister.

She pulls away and he can feel a distinct patch of moisture on his uniform that her tears left behind.

The girl settles on her knees, and the dog is curled beside her. She begins to chew on the thumbnail of one hand while stroking the dog's head with the other, and the whole scene looks so perfect and angelic that Scott does not wish to disturb it, and he turns his attention to the girl's father.

The man offers a hand to the engineer and shakes it firmly. Scott introduces himself and explains in brief the circumstances that united him with the lost dog on the abandoned colony on a forgotten planet in a remote corner of the galaxy.

Thank you, Mr. Scott, the man replies. He is about to continue when his daughter scuffles to her feet and bounds toward them in one exaggerated step. She stares up at Scott, her eyes wide and dream-like.

He didn't have a name before we left, you know, she declares to the engineer.

Scott stares at her, completely at a loss for words.

I think I'll name him Scott, she claims. She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, turns her eyes to the engineer, and adds: if that is okay with you, mister.

He can not help but let his jaw drop, and is thankful that he can not see the dumbfounded expression on his own face. He can think of nothing to do and nothing to say save shrugging his hands in the girl's direction almost absentmindedly.

Aye, lass. It would be an honor.

She smiles so broadly that the engineer can swear that the light of the biggest star in the galaxy is reflected in her expression. She bounds away toward the buildings in the distance, and all the engineer can hear is her repeating the name, over and over in her childish falsetto, as the newly christened dog tags along behind her. Scott watches them until they become blurred against the rust-colored backdrop, and has to blink his eyes furiously to get his vision back in focus again.

He gives his respects to the girl's father, and the man watches him with a placid expression until the _Enterprise _beams him back.

That evening, the captain checks in on his chief engineer in the latter's quarters. He knocks on the door, hears a mumbled acquiescence from within.

The lights in the room are dimmed, and the chief engineer is situated at his desk. He has a glass perched between his hands with a few fingers of amber liquid still swirling in the bottom; an intricate and very old glass bottle stands within his reach, still half full of the alcohol.

Scott watches with a bleary expression as the captain crosses his quarters in very measured steps and stands next to his desk. The engineer raises his glass in the captain's direction.

Scotch whisky. Very, very old, he says.

The captain asks him, very seriously, if everything is alright.

Scott pauses to think, downs the rest of the scotch in one ravenous slug, and eases the glass to the table without a sound. His hand grasps at the bottle and he stares at it for a moment before pouring another measure into the glass. He stares at the swirling liquid for a moment, slowly, deliberately.

Yea, he says. Never been better, actually.

The captain seems thoroughly unconvinced. Scott waves his hand in dismissal and assures the captain that he is not drowning his sorrows in drink.

It's kinda funny, he muses, that of all the bloody people in the universe that could've found that dog, it had to be him. And that, of all the people in the universe that could've owned that dog, it had to be _her._

No, he is drinking in celebration, of life and all the unusual strings that fate weaves through it, pardon the esoteric expression.

And well, he would be less of a man if he did not oblige a lady. Even a wee little lass with pigtails.

He reunited two beings that were meant to be together, and he is a hero in one little girl's eyes. Somehow, that makes everything worth it. That he, a grown man with nearly twenty years in a military institution, could feel his heart melt about his feet when that little girl smiled at him and told him thank you, was a sensation so foreign to him and yet so wonderful that he never wants to forget it. He is drinking to honor that, to remember it.

The captain seems satisfied. He is about to turn to leave when Scott produces another glass and slides it across the table toward him. The captain stares for a breath and accepts the offer with a simple nod. The engineer pours a generous amount of the precious liquid and replaces the bottle in absolute silence.

Scott motions with his glass and admits that his customary toast is to the _Enterprise._ In light of recent events, however, he decides that a new dedication seems appropriate.

To Whisky, he says.

The captain cocks a wry smile, and it is all he can do not to laugh.

Both men raise their glasses, and they touch with a minute crystalline sound. In a moment the captain and his chief engineer are an exact mirror of one another, glasses turned upward and emptied without a pause for breath.

The captain replaces his glass on the table, glances pointedly at his engineer. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the antique bottle and nods his head in approval.

That's good stuff, he says.

Scott reads between the lines in the way only a close friend can, and pours more of the scotch into the captain's glass without another word exchanged between them.

_To Be Continued._


	5. Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age

Saturn is my favorite movement from 'The Planets.' It is the piece, quite frankly, that inspired me to write this fanfic. It is the longest movement in the symphony at nearly ten minutes, and is beautiful and haunting beyond description. It should not be surprising to anyone that I chose this piece for McCoy. I have pulled out all the stops for this one, as it were. I took great inspiration for this from the TOS episode "The Empath," but it is _not_ meant to be read as a retelling of that episode.

Enjoy this one, because I really, really did!

**V. Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age**

One must stay behind so that the other two can be saved; that is the only terms of negotiation their captors will offer.

He would be an idiot if he didn't realize that the one left behind would not be leaving that planet again.

Not alive, anyway.

It takes him only a breath to make his decision, and he is amazed at how quickly he has become convinced. He can see the wheels turning in the captain's head, and he knows that the man is about to speak, so he grabs him fiercely by the shoulder, leans so close that all they can see are each other's eyes, and speaks low and deliberate and fierce.

No. I won't let you do that.

I am the captain, the man responds with an unusual degree of heat. The decision is mine.

Perhaps the captain's anger has clouded his normally sharp sense for the presence of the hypospray, but the doctor has it jabbed against the younger man's neck before the captain can raise his voice in protest. McCoy reaches out his arms to catch the captain as he slumps, and is easing him to the ground when the first officer is suddenly looming over him.

He expects the Vulcan to refute his actions, but instead a nod of understanding comes his way. The Vulcan indicates that he will remain behind, allowing the doctor to escort the captain to safety.

McCoy knows that what will follow will be difficult for all of them. Still on his knees next to the captain, he glares up at the first officer with an expression on his face the latter can not comprehend.

He jabs the hypospray through the Vulcan's clothes, just below the knee. The first officer has just enough time to snap his head down to glare at the doctor, and he is about to open his mouth to question the man's ethics as his body folds. McCoy eases him down next to the captain, places the hypospray unobtrusively some distance away, and gets to his feet.

He has lived his life already, experienced everything that the two of them have yet to even realize. He can justify it that way, perhaps, because he would rather die than see anything happen to his captain, and, though he admits this somewhat begrudgingly, also to the Vulcan. He can not willingly endanger another life, even if it means preserving his own. It goes against everything he's ever stood for, every decision he's ever made, and even the oath of his profession, which has stood untouched for thousands of years.

He looks over the captain and the first officer, slumped against one another like sleeping children. He feels a pang of an emotion he can not place . . . regret, or something more.

I'm sorry.

Their captors return a moment later, knock him to the ground, and bind him in chains while the captain and first officer remain oblivious. As they drag him from the room McCoy offers one final look at the two men he is leaving behind.

Two lives at the cost of his own.

He's a doctor, not a hero.

Yet he is sacrificing himself to these hostile people so that the others could escape because that was the only thing he _could_ do. He is turning his death into a chance for them to live; instead of trying to prevent death he is approaching it head on, and it just seems so emotional and yet. . . logical at the same time.

The captors take him to a distant room, devoid of external light or any decoration, and attach his chains to another hanging from the ceiling. Without word or explanation they produce an alien weapon he can only liken to a lethal cousin of a cat-o'-nine-tails, and proceed to beat him with the weapon and their fists and their feet until his skin is falling off and his throat is raw for the screaming and he tumbles into unconsciousness from the agony.

He awakens to an all-consuming and empty darkness.

He can not move, can not see, can not hear anything save his own ragged breathing. His uniform shirt has been completely eradicated, and that which escaped the massacre hangs tattered from his shoulders. There are pieces of it on the floor amid streaks of his own blood, but he can barely discern them for the lack of light. He can feel the blood running down his chest and his back, but it is sluggish, as the wounds have begun to coagulate. The nerves in his shoulders spasm at irregular intervals, causing the chains around his wrists to cut deeper into already raw skin. He can not feel anything from the waist down, because he is suspended from his hands several inches off the ground, and the senses in his legs have long faded away.

His head is throbbing with so much ferocity that he can not see straight, but he can remember every detail of his hellish ordeal so vividly that his body spasms out of defense, fresh pain springing from his wounds as if begging of him not to think about it anymore.

He has lost most sensation through his back as his body's natural defense mechanisms shut him off from the intense pain. Or perhaps his reserves are spent, and it is a numbness of a different sort that is creeping up on him, as his sensations are slowly becoming nothing at all. . .

He thinks bitterly about Joanna, about his shortcomings as a father. How he has not seen her for years, has been millions of miles away while she grows up without him. He has heard through the channels that she has professed an interest in joining the field of medicine, just like her father. He allows himself a private smile, but it is one of regret, hollow and dry. The everyday chaos of life on a Starfleet vessel often pushes the memories to the back of his mind, but at the end of the day there is not a moment that he does not think of her. Of the day that he last saw her, when she had fat and incandescent tears trapped at the corners of her eyes and a quiver in her bottom lip as he said he was sorry, turned his back on her, and walked away . . .

He can see her as vividly as if she were right there with him in his agony. She is sitting on his lap, her hands over her eyes and her face twisted in a grimace as he tends to her scraped knees. As the final bandage is in place she peers warily through her fingers, decides the torture is over, and turns to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him on his cheek, babbling a thank you that brings a smile to his lips as she bounds away.

And Jocelyn is standing at a distance, her eyes wide and thoughtful, and she looks . . . happy. That was back before . . . before it all went wrong.

He bites his lip to dispel the memory, because he can not let himself cry.

His hands are slick with sweat or blood or something worse, and he is beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. He moves them slowly, painfully, and feels the sensation of the ring on his pinkie finger as it brushes against his skin. A shiver, painful and uncontrollable, seizes his body. It is his mother's wedding ring, a small and delicate reminder forever against his skin of the life he is soon to leave behind. He balls his fist as tightly as he can manage and focuses on that simple feeling of the metal encircling the smallest of his fingers until he fears he might cry from the effort, from the memory.

Death is never a comforting topic to linger on. Especially when that death will soon be his own.

He can feel the grinding of his broken bones and the throbbing of his wounds and he knows that his organs are failing. He knows that he is dying not because he knows what dying feels like, but because he knows he has passed the point of no return and that there is nowhere to go from here but. . .

He is dying and there is not a damn thing he can do about it because his arms are chained together in the darkness above his head and he can not think of anything except the pain.

The grating sound of a door jars his attention for only a fleeting moment. It opens, but no light enters the room, and he finds this strange because there is an old saying back home that there would be a light at the end of it all. As fingers of darkness close around him he remarks sardonically to himself that his afterworld accommodations portend to be much less hospitable than he had hoped.

His mind struggles in the final moment. He attempts to speak, but lacks the strength to even open his mouth. He clutches at the last fringes of his sanity, suddenly wishing that it could end in a way other than this. That he would rather live out the rest of his days in this pain and this agony and in this lonesome void of darkness than to have it all end right here.

But at last his struggle is over, and he closes his eyes. The transition from physical to mental darkness is quick and complete.

Slowly and deliberately, thought returns to his brain. He can not describe it as a feeling, but rather a vague idea of being suspended motionless in a great span infinite size, within it and yet above it simultaneously, a paradox of sensation that seems … natural. It flows around him, caresses him with its soft touch, comforts him, sentient and corporeal.

His body seems lost against the backdrop of insurmountable nothingness. He can see nothing, there is no up or down or left or right as if all his sensations have melted together and somehow…it is nice.

Why did you do it, Bones?

He lets the question swirl around him without really hearing it, a dejected vibration of intelligible sound, as if he was listening underwater, that he can feel with his body but not in his brain.

Were you that prepared to accept death?

The final word in the question is able to penetrate his unconsciousness, the Rosetta stone that allows him to understand again, that frees him from his miasma of thoughtlessness.

Death? Is this . . . what death feels like?

It is soft and almost delicate, he decides, wrapped around him like the comforting arms of a lover. It is warm and feels safe. But there is a disagreeable taste in the back of his mouth, something about the situation that does not seem correct. He struggles to focus on it, but the encompassing darkness has made his brain fuzzy and sluggish, denying him coherent thought.

You can't die on me.

He knows that voice.

Not like this, Bones.

The frayed edges of his memory struggle to come to life again. He tries to turn his head toward the voice and realizes that the darkness has him in complete stasis. Realization dawns on him like a flash of light in the distance, and he knows with sudden, chilling clarity why this place seems so _wrong._

It is so beautiful and so warm and so endearing that he thought he never wanted to leave.

And it is unwilling to let him go.

Sensations slowly begin to return to his body, as if he is an infant just removed from the womb, learning to speak and to hear and to see for the first time. He struggles against the thick ropes of velvet that attempt to tighten their hold on his very soul. Heat rises in his limbs and he can feel the intense beating of his heart.

_This is anger,_ his brain tells him. _You are angry, and you are afraid._

Bones?

The pure sensation of sound returns, and the gentle humming in his ears flutters away. He can hear again, and it is so crystalline and beautiful that he longs to reach his arms out toward it, if only he could find the strength to move.

Something suddenly penetrates his abyss of nothingness and settles on his arm, which is floating somewhere at his side. The darkness around him seems to seethe and writhe at the intruder and swirls away like a wounded animal. He is about to laugh at himself for personifying something so abstract when he suddenly senses that he is shattering through a pane of glass, and he begins to _feel_ again.

It is not pain but a heaviness. It feels like he has been asleep for a thousand years, and for a moment he can not even recognize his own body. He tries to move an arm, but the weight is so ponderous that he can not formulate the thought, and a knot of something boils in his chest as he wonders if he is paralyzed. The only sensation that is so near and so real is his salvation, the feeling on his arm he can not identify. It is warm and soft and so familiar. . .

He focuses on it, draws all his energy toward it, and soon realizes that it is a hand, gently placed, the fingers lightly encircling the area just below his elbow. It is a feeling so sacrosanct that he can not think of any words to describe it, save two.

_Thank you._

He shakes away the last vestiges of the darkness and it falls away, sticky and liquid-like. Trapped now between consciousness and unconsciousness, the proverbial darkness and the light, he decides that there is a more important place for him out there.

One eye slides open, but it is a shadow of a movement. The hand clutches at his arm out of reflex and he hears a curse and the shuffling of a body moving in surprise.

Bones? Bones!

His breath hitches in his throat in something that mimics a sigh. He wants to tell the persistent voice to stop yelling, but any form of such communication is beyond him at this point.

He forces his eyes open with an effort he is afraid will kill him all over again, and finds he can see nothing but a blurred and incoherent canvas of color without shape . . . but he can _see,_ dammit. What follows is a cathartic reaction; a shiver runs down the length of his body and his breath is suspended in his chest for a moment before he releases it, low and thready, with the sudden realization . . .

He is alive.

He blinks once, but it is an effort almost beyond him and his eyes threaten not to open again. The fog clears from his brain and he is staring at the ceiling of medical bay, a position so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

Holy shit, Bones.

That is the captain's voice, he decides after a moment.

He lets his eyes slide lethargically toward his captain, and it takes several swirling and sickening seconds for his vision to focus on the younger man.

You—

No, don't try to talk.

The captain grips tightly at his arm and with one hand and places the other against his chest. His touch is a light and delicate one that belies his exterior. The expression on the younger man's face suggests that he has spent many sleepless nights next to this bed awaiting the inevitable, and is exhausted and relieved beyond words to find that he was wrong.

Next time, leave the dirty work to me, okay?

He can hear the hitch in the captain's voice, can detect the sheen in his eyes. He will admit that he finds this reversal of roles, with he supine on the bed and his captain looming over him with dark circles under his eyes, oddly disconcerting.

. . . Glad . . . there is . . . a next time.

It takes all his effort to speak the words and they come out as only fragments of sound. His throat burns from disuse and he falls limp as the last word leaves his throat. But it is not back into the outstretched arms of the lonely darkness, rather, into the comforting and healing blanket of untroubled sleep.

The captain heaves a sigh, and releases with it days of tension and agony and fear. His hand lingers on the doctor's arm for a moment, relishing the feeling of living skin under his fingers.

As he gets to his feet, he squeezes at his friend's arm one last time.

Me too, Bones. Me too.

_To Be Continued._


	6. Uranus, the Magician

There is only one more left after this one, folks! A gigantic thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed.

**N.B.** This chapter characterizes Orions according to _Enterprise _canon.

**VI. Uranus, the Magician**

Time flows differently on a starship. There is no morning and evening, no dawn and twilight in a place where Sol does not exist. Life's tempo is dictated not by the ethereal changes in the light, but rather with the emotionless monikers of ancient letters in a long-dead language: alpha, beta, gamma. It leaves something to be desired in the young woman's mind, and not only for the romanticism lost in the militaristic translation.

It is still an hour before her shift starts, the one called alpha. She has been awake for some time already, and is engrossed in her morning retinue. As she prepares for the day, she does as she has always done, from the time she was a young girl: she sings. The song will change according to her mood; today it is light and airy, a love song she has adored for many years.

She is lost in the middle of a verse when there is a chime at the door to her quarters, and a muffled voice formally addresses her through the door.

She recognizes the unmistakable accent, and her expression softens. As she crosses the room toward the door a mischievous light flickers in her eyes, and she has to fight to erase the sly smile from her lips.

The door slides open to reveal the young Russian navigator. He is standing somewhat to the side of the threshold, smartly at attention. There is a look on his face that she can read quite easily in his bright and expressive eyes.

Did you hear me singing?

She tries not to laugh as she sees the way the ensign's face contorts into something almost painful to watch.

Yes sir, I mean, no sir, ay-a! I mean, ma'am. No, ma'am.

She does not need to look hard to discern that the young Russian is attempting, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide the color springing to every inch of his face.

She attempts to quell his unease with a gentle shake of her head.

It's alright; I don't mind.

He stammers and manages a nod, and she realizes that, even after all this time, he is still standing at attention.

What is it?

The commander has sent for you because there is a subspace anomaly that the junior officers can not identify lieutenant. He manages this all in one breath, without punctuation, and his words nearly tumble over one another in the effort to leave his mouth.

I'll be right there, she replies. In response to the frantic expression on the ensign's face, she adds: you don't need to wait for me.

He nods to her and is about to speak something in reply when the door slides shut to stop him.

It is unnaturally quiet when she arrives on the bridge. Most of the officers from alpha shift have yet to arrive, save three: the captain nods to her as she enters, the navigator is making a point to stare furiously at his console, and the first officer is looming over the shoulder of a stricken-looking junior officer at the communications station.

The Vulcan's statuesque expression barely seems to change as she crosses into his line of vision, and she smiles amicably at him as she relieves the junior officer of his duties. Turning to the console, she rests her fingertips against her earpiece and her entire body freezes in complete stasis as she begins to listen.

Too often lost in the chaos of life on the bridge was the simple beauty of _listening._ Of not hearing and reciting and translating as matter of life and death, but simply absorbing the sound—or the absence of it. She has a pensive look on her features as she lets the noise of empty space communication wash over her, searching for the elusive anomaly.

Uhura sighs, listens to the sound of the aether, the resonance of the dark matter, the whispers of the planets. The entire universe speaks among itself. It is a language beyond comprehension, but not without preternatural beauty. All one has to do is listen. And listen she does, a slight smile parting her lips as she takes a breath to wonder what it is that an entire universe thinks about, talks about, dreams about.

She is proficient in eighty-three percent of all the Federation languages. None are as beautiful as this. The nonsense of sounds, seemingly meaningless, random, somehow all interconnected. Words she can not identify that are not really words at all.

There are words, now. _Words_ for the simple distinction that the inflection suggests they were made by a humanoid tongue. She knows on instinct that this is the anomaly she is seeking, a gentle ripple of sound barely discernible against the backdrop of space. She leans forward in her seat, drags her fingers across a screen, toying with the ultra-sensitive sensors of the ship to focus on and amplify what she is hearing.

She _can_ recognize the words, now. They emerge slowly, as if from deep water.

A part of her reacts viscerally. She immediately knows the tone of the voice, and can clearly decipher the words without hesitation for the simple reason that a certain female companion of hers spoke the language every day—usually to explain, bemusedly, why she had brought yet another man back to the room.

She rolls her eyes and sighs at the mixture of memories.

It is Orions, sir.

She counters the grin that flicks at the corners of the captain's lips with an icy expression of her own, but the effort is in vain.

Tactical suddenly announces that their sensors have detected an approaching ship. The captain turns to face her, and she knows what he is going to say before he has even thought it.

Open hailing frequencies, lieutenant.

She does so before his command is complete, and silence reigns as the bridge waits as one unit for a response to come their way. The object of their attention appears as a minute vessel in the distance on the viewscreen and begins to draw closer at an almost leisurely pace.

After a moment she receives a response in a heavily accented Federation English, and the sculpted form of an Orion male appears on the viewscreen. He is an interesting shade closer to teal than to the customary green, and Uhura is quick to note the comical expression that floats across the captain's face. She could almost call it . . . disappointed.

The customary formalities are exchanged, and the Orion male begins to ask the captain if he would be interested in the Orion female slave trade. Uhura resists the urge to bury her face in her hands, because it seems such a natural reaction, both to the question and to what she suspects will be the captain's eminent response.

Her attention to the subsequent events is suddenly distracted, however, as she can hear a delicate voice, much higher in pitch, that weaves around the male Orion's voice like a musical instrument. She turns to her console and makes a few adjustments, until the voice suddenly rings clear in her ears.

The one in the gold looks fantastic.

One eyebrow tilts in suspicion, and she stills her breath as she listens. It is a distinctly female voice, speaking in the languid tones of Orion prime, though the speaker is not present on the viewscreen. She is speaking softly, as if attempting to remain unnoticed.

Yes, says another voice, but I would like the little one, the one with the curls.

There is a sensual bout of laughter that makes Uhura's skin crawl. She glances around the bridge. Either the other crew members can not hear the voices or are unable to translate them.

It is unfortunate that the Vulcan is immune, or I would take him too.

Uhura rolls her eyes, slams her fist against her leg, and swirls in her chair. Her eyes are locked on the first officer. She knows that the Vulcan's mode of logic will not work with these people, and she also knows that if she waits any longer the captain will soon be drooling and incapacitated on the floor, despite the fact that pheromones can not travel across space.

She removes her earpiece and stands, drawing the Orion's attention to her with a few simple words in Orion Prime as she takes several strides toward the captain. The latter's eyes flick to her in surprise as she is suddenly at his side, her hand wrapped around his upper arm.

I'm sorry sir, but we need to keep up appearances, she whispers in his ear.

She tightens her grip and shoves the captain back to his chair, only able to overpower him for the element of surprise. He is barking a fierce retort when she steps in front of him, blocking him from view of the Orion. She regards the green-hued male with an air of disgust.

The Orion male's eyes snap toward her, and his face twists in an expression that suggests he was previously unaware of her presence. Incredulity flickers across his features, and he begins gesturing violently at the females offscreen. As if suddenly shocked into silence, the disembodied voices have fallen completely silent.

Uhura continues to speak, undaunted. She points vigorously throughout the bridge, barely pausing for breath, gesturing pointedly at the captain and the navigator and the first officer as the expression on the Orion's face grows extensively grave.

As her monologue draws to a close the Orion is strangely motionless. One of the female voices snaps at him from off screen, and he abruptly cuts the connection to the _Enterprise_. The ship makes a quick about-face and jettisons away from them before jumping to warp. It is a movement so quick and unexpected that the bridge falls silent in surprise.

Uhura glances over her shoulder at the captain, and the latter regards her with his face almost a caricature of itself. She returns to her station with the same measured steps in which she left it, replaces her earpiece, and responds to the captain's prodding gaze with a level expression.

Lieutenant, what just happened?

Surely sir, you are familiar with the Orion slave trade, and the truth about Orion females?

In response to his nod of affirmation she continues.

There were Orion females . . . perusing members of the bridge, sir. I could hear them discussing amongst themselves. I felt it prudent to stop them before the situation got out of hand.

She gives the captain a moment to digest this information, and his expression is less than amused.

You honestly thought I would get roped in by a bunch of Orions?

It was merely a precaution, sir, she says, and it takes everything she has to keep her voice level.

How the hell did you get them to leave, then?

I informed them that you possessed a particular sexual affliction that they would find undesirable, sir.

The exaggerated grin that was on the captain's face evaporates and his head tilts to the side in a barely perceptible movement.

You . . .uh . . . what?

She hesitates before she opens her mouth to respond to him because it is taking every ounce of her control not to break into a crooked and hilarious smile.

I only did what was necessary, captain.

This seems to placate the man for the simple fact that the he is attempting, with little success, to maintain a detached expression.

What about him? The captain gestures in the way of the young navigator.

The expression on said young man's face manages to be both morbidly curious and mortified in kind, and there is a red tint to the tips of his ears.

She swallows her laughter with some difficulty.

I would rather not say, Captain.

The captain can not offer any words, and it looks as if his entire face has suddenly gone numb. He merely shrugs his hand in the direction of his Vulcan first officer.

She tilts her head at a curious angle and her lips part in a feline smile.

I told them that he was already owned, she responds.

The expression that splashes across the captain's face almost makes the entire exchange worth it, she decides. She glances over his shoulder at the first officer. She can not say for certain, but can almost swear that the Vulcan is smiling at her.

_To Be Continued._


	7. Neptune, the Mystic

Well, here we are. It has been exhausting, but very rewarding! I must give tons of thanks to Beguile for her beta skills! 'Neptune, the Mystic' has belonged to Spock from the very beginning. I am sad to see this series end, but I hope that everyone enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it. Check out my profile for news on my upcoming fanfic projects.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed!

**VII. Neptune, the Mystic**

A solitary lamp is burning on the floor, a small urn of brass brandishing an open flame. Every light in the room is dim, and the single flame creates a gentle sphere of light like a pearl nestled in velvet. The single occupant of the room is barely visible through the shroud of semi-darkness and is sitting in the traditional position of meditation.

He is focused on the flame, looking at it, around it, and through it simultaneously.

It is a flame of purging, cleansing. He lets it draw the emotions from him with preternatural magnetism. Each leaves his body with a physical separation he can feel, and in its place there arrives a warming sensation of completeness.

The flame licks at the sharp edges of his mind, and he separates from himself with a gentle intake of breath. It is a sensation akin to slipping beneath the surface of water, into a place where the laws of gravity are twisted and an unnamed force supports him from every side. Every movement requires a tremendous quantity of energy and produces a negligible result. He is well tuned to the elastic quality of this universe and lets his mental representation fall completely still. His mind adapts a gradient edge, seeing flashes of absolute clarity through a haze of senselessness.

He is positioned amid an expanse of crystal, within it and above it, looking through it and looking down on it in a kaleidoscope of colors. It is a dodecahedron, the Platonic symbol of the aether, the representation of the infinite universe in something corporeal.

He remains there for an amount of time he can not measure, floating on the waves of universal thought on the tangent plane to the physical world. He does not think of anything, yet comprehends everything at once in a clarity that can not be experienced in the unenlightened mortal condition.

When his time in this world is allotted, reality pulls at the back of his mind. The facets of the crystal melt away, and the light of consciousness returns like the dawn. He opens his eyes to find the light from the lamp nearly burned down. He sits in silence and watches as it dies. His sensations slowly return to him, and he feels a calmness so deep he cannot quantify it seep into his very being.

His meditation complete, he moves slowly and deliberately, storing the lamp away and moving to the table at the side of his quarters. He places a hand on the chair at the same moment that the chime at his door trills to life, extremely loud amid the silence of the room.

The door slides open and he nods at the captain. The man enters as he is positioning himself at the table, which holds on its surface the object of their interest. This particular specimen is a three-dimensional chess board, its seven layers of frosted glass arranged like a staircase leading to some sort of higher understanding.

It has become a necessity in the past several weeks for the captain and his first officer to engage in a round of the ancient tradition after their shift, though neither can explain how the decision arose between them to first attempt it. Thus far the Vulcan has proven himself the superior player, trapping the captain with an unrelenting logical dance around the chessboard.

The captain will always take each defeat with grace, something that the first officer finds unusual.

There is a mischievous smile on the captain's face tonight as he splays into the chair opposite the Vulcan.

I think this is the time I finally beat you, he announces triumphantly.

A most illogical assumption, captain, as you obviously lack any powers of precognition.

The Vulcan does not allow the captain to answer the retort before he grasps one of his chess pieces and makes his opening move.

The captain watches him with overtly serious eyes, chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and makes a counterattack. The game presses on in this fashion for several minutes, and Spock can detect no feasible pattern in the captain's movements. He continues with his own execution, attacking and defending with little regard to the random moves of his adversary.

It is only when the captain places his bishop in one particular location that a pattern suddenly appears in Spock's mind like a flash of lightning, and he realizes that he is in danger. He watches as the captain removes the felled queen from the board and places it silently amid the collection of other casualties on his side of the table.

May I make an inquiry, captain?

Blue eyes float up to meet his own.

No. But you can ask a question of Jim.

Spock's eyebrow arches at a dangerous angle in a movement that has become a customary response when in the presence of the captain.

I fail to ascertain any difference between those two options, captain.

Of course you don't, the captain mutters. Go ahead, Spock. Ask away.

You seem to have developed your game since our last encounter.

The captain's face falls.

Oh, Spock. Don't tell me you're worried.

Negative, captain. It was merely an observation.

The captain moves another piece.

An observation, the captain repeats. You know, Spock, it wouldn't kill you to be a little _less_ logical, sometimes.

The Vulcan shakes his head negatively as he makes another move. That is simply an emotional chasm that he can not cross. This does not mean that he does not feel the need for competition, or friendship, but there will always be that distance there, for he knows no other way.

He can detect a deeper meaning to all this, but the chime of the captain's voice shortens his thoughts.

Oh, Spock?

Yes, captain?

The captain cradles the bishop gently in his hands and moves it down one level. He sits back and folds his arms with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Checkmate.

The Vulcan entertains surprise for only a moment, until realization creeps in. He had let himself become distracted. His eyes float to meet the captain's own, giving no outward indication of his astonishment. His mind hesitates to accept the fact that his captain has managed to distort and bend the straight lines of his thought with his completely illogical bearing.

He realizes that he and the captain are antonyms of one another. Equal but opposite, one of the universe's most fundamental laws put in motion. Their relationship is symbiotic, he notes; one can not exist without the other. It would not be beyond him to call the captain the parasite and himself the unfortunate host, but such complex humor is not his way.

Captain?

The young man's face is a picture of innocence.

I believe the ancient expression is that I have been hustled, Spock offers flatly.

The captain may think that he is successful in hiding the telling expression on his face, but the Vulcan can read the lines there as easily as any text.

Spock, what makes you say that?

You do make certain deductions quite obvious, captain.

The captain replies with a renegade smile, and gets to his feet.

I'll take that as a compliment, Spock.

He has his hand on the controls to the door when he turns back to his first officer.

I'll be here, same time tomorrow, he says before he leaves.

Spock nods toward him as the door slides shut. He sits in silence for a moment, focusing on the arrangement on the middle tier of the chessboard. They are an innocuous collection of pieces at first glance, but looking at them at the correct angle reveals the hidden power of the checkmate, written long ago in rules that have not changed through time.

It is fascinating.

_He_ never thinks in straight lines. Moving on the diagonal, the oblique, allows him to often remain unnoticed until the perfect alignment of circumstance, whereupon he often appears where the unsuspecting player does not expect him to arrive.

Spock leaves the pieces as they are, rises without haste, and dims the lights. The same small lamp finds its way to the floor again, encircling him with its small jewel of color as he settles himself beside it. His mind drifts in the controlled chaos, but he does not imagine the perfect lines of a Platonic solid, with its tangible, mathematical clarity. Instead, the object of his meditation is a crystalline chess piece, the pointed form of the bishop . . .

_Fin._


End file.
